


Momentary Weakness

by Skalidra



Series: Dealing with Demons [2]
Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: M/M, Neverland (Once Upon a Time), Past Rape/Non-con, Payback, This is not Hero!Killian
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-24
Updated: 2018-06-24
Packaged: 2019-05-27 23:27:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,789
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15035660
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Skalidra/pseuds/Skalidra
Summary: Killian's been trapped on Neverland longer than he cares to count, with every bit of his life played out at the whim of Pan's moods. That is, until something shakes the entirety of Neverland, and when Killian searches for the source, he finds that Pan just might not be as invulnerable as usual. What pirate wouldn't take advantage of that?





	Momentary Weakness

**Author's Note:**

  * For [maryashini](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=maryashini).



> Welcome! This was a commission! Also, I still really enjoy these two, even if canon was sorely lacking in more backstory about them.
> 
> A note: this is _not_ friendly Killian. This is trapped-on-the-island-for-decades, pirate!Killian who's sick of everything and hates the world and definitely hates Pan, and he's not real hung up about doing terrible things to feel better for just a little fraction of time. Which he does; terrible things, that is. So, pull your minds back to first-appearance Killian here, up against someone he's been helpless against a long time.
> 
> [You can find my Tumblr here!](http://skalidra.tumblr.com/)

Time is eternally inconsistent in Neverland. It’s maddening, for those used to rising and falling with the sun, to have days that only last a few hours or nights that stretch on until you’ve started to forget that days actually exist. To Killian’s crew, to all sane members of the island — less and less does he consider himself such — it’s an exhausting, grueling thing to adjust an entire life around a world that may be different every hour.

Where the rocks are might shift to suddenly be in your path, the tides or current change with no warning, the wind suddenly start to howl or rain to pour. The Jolly Roger's had holes knocked in her more than a few times, though she's never actually sunk. Killian really doesn't know whether that's his own prowess as a captain, or just that Pan doesn't want it to happen. There's no way to know how much of what he's done here has actually been his own work, though he thinks at least _some_ must be. Pan can't really want to interfere with his life every single minute. Surely he's got _something_ else to do and enjoy than just Killian's daily struggles. There has to be.

What to him is a fight for survival, eking out an existence around the edges of the island, is only a game to Pan. One of his favorites. To a bunch of cruel teenage boys and their psychotic, sadistic leader of a demon, Killian supposes it must be a bunch of fun to harass and torment anyone that comes within reach. The Lost Boys can't reach them out on the water, but if they venture on land to get food, or water, or even just to feel the bloody ground, they're prime targets for ambushes.

Sometimes, they can collect what they need just by fishing and collecting rainwater. Others, they're forced ashore to try to fight or steal what's necessary. And then sometimes… Sometimes, the only option is to make a deal.

Killian's learned to hate deals, because the simple truth of it is, if Pan wants something from him, neither he nor his crew will eat until he gets it. The dealing is a formality; they can be starved or exhausted or beaten into obedience as Pan wishes.

(Sometimes, Pan doesn't bother with the deals at all. Sometimes, Killian wakes to a demon hovering over him and shadows holding him down, and there's nothing he can do to stop it.)

The morning seems the same as any other at first. The sun rises, the day begins, and Killian's crew starts the morning routine of rechecking the position of the rocks and shore to see if any traps lie in wait today. Nothing shows up.

Killian reviews his notes, plans for the day, and doesn't let himself sink into believing that nothing's going to happen. Inevitably, that's when Pan tends to strike. (The demon can't read minds, but he does seem to have an uncanny ability to read emotion and intention. Makes him just as good as a mind-reader, most days.) He's let his guard down too many times over the years he's been trapped here, and rarely does he ever escape those times wholly intact. Dignity is the most common fatality, but far from the only one.

The sudden _crack_ of something sharper than thunder but just as loud startles Killian out of his chair, and instincts honed by the survival of the island have him jerking for the door before the sound even fully ends. He gets out on the deck just in time for a sharp swell of the ocean to slam him back against the wood beside his door. His crew is yelling, but there’s no splash of a fallen man so Killian ignores the shouts and the ache in his shoulder blades and shoves off the wall.

The ship is settling back on the waves, moved only by the normal sway of the water, and Killian heads for the distinctive red cap of perhaps his most trusted ally.

“Smee!”

He’s up near the wheel, and spins around with a startled, “Captain!” as Killian takes the steps two at a time and whirls to face him.

“Did you see what happened?” he asks, pulling his spyglass from inside his coat and snapping it open. Once it was a struggle to do it with only the one hand, but now a twist and flick of his hook snaps it open with as much ease as fingers would.

“Aye, Captain. Some kind of shockwave, up on the island. Shook the mountains, sir, and set the water rising up like a ripple in a pond.” It’s not irregular for Smee’s eyes to be wide, but they look a little more so right now.

Killian lifts the spyglass instead of answering, to take a look out at the island.

Nothing _looks_ out of place, but that might not mean much. Pan’s traps are only obvious sometimes (usually when you have no hope of evading them).

He considers, weighing pros and cons against each other as he considers what might have made that sound, and disturbed the island. If it’s not a trap, then it must be something that’s happened to Pan. That could be an opportunity, to gather supplies or gain intel, or even find something to get them off of this bloody island. If it _is_ a trap…

Well, then Pan will get bored of waiting to spring it and probably come right to him anyway. Maybe if he walks into it, he can bargain something in exchange, or get one of Pan’s less-common ‘gifts.’ It won’t be worth it, but it might be better than nothing. That’s better, right?

“I’m going ashore,” Killian says, clicking the spyglass shut and stowing it. “Keep my ship floating, Smee.”

Smee follows along behind him as he heads for the rowboat, stride short and desperate as he says, “Yes, Captain, but are you sure that’s a good idea? I mean, everything that’s out there—”

“I’m sure, Mr. Smee.”

The boat drops smoothly enough with the two of them on the ropes; not like when Killian has to do it by himself. Smee doesn’t offer to come with, or suggest any of the crew go as well, only gives a jerky nod and a faked smile and says, “Good fortune, Captain.”

Killian actually believes it. Smee might be the one member of his crew that’s still loyal, even if it’s in a pathetic-dog sort of way. The others… They’ve been trapped here too long and all lost too much for Killian to think that any of them really like him anymore. The only reason they still follow him is that he knows this island, and Pan’s moods, better than any of the rest of them, and there’s nowhere else to go.

Getting to the island’s easy enough, and nothing immediately strikes when he steps foot onto the rocks of the shore. Not even as he drags the boat up far enough that the tides won’t wash it away.

Then he heads off into the island.

He skirts the areas that the Lost Boys usually frequent; he’d rather not run into any of them. They’ve got a standing order not to kill him — Pan’s too fond of him to allow that — but ‘not dead’ leaves a whole lot of other room, and he’s pretty sure there’s also a standing bounty on his head for any boy that brings him back to Pan.

He’s also pretty sure that the only reason Pan hasn’t infected him with Dreamshade, and made him drink the water from the spring to tie him eternally to Neverland, is that he’d probably choose to end his life right there. Eternity in this place? With no way out and Pan as a constant tormentor? Killian thinks he’d rather fall on his own sword and get the suffering out of the way to begin with.

He’s half a forest in, with no visible tricks yet, when the island begins to shudder. Very faintly, enough that he thinks he’s imagining it for the first few minutes before he begins to hear the rustling of the leaves. Everything is trembling, and Killian takes a moment to stand still and stare around at it.

Even if the island had earthquakes (that weren’t by design), this doesn’t feel like one. The very air seems to be shaking along with the island, and Killian comes once again to the idea that something’s happened to Pan. If something did, where would he go?

Killian grits his teeth, and turns in the direction of the caves.

He’s got nothing but sour, bloody memories of them, but Pan seems to like them. Killian’s found himself in them more often than he’d care to say, and he thinks that if Pan had somewhere he would retreat to, that might be it. It’s that or Skull Island, out among the water, and Killian will take his chances here first. Here, he can actually get into without having to pass magical, deadly wards.

The forest’s disturbingly void of any life, animal or Lost Boy both, and Killian finds himself growing more wary with every passing minute as he follows long-since memorized paths. Paths that for once are just as he remembers them.

The cave’s entrance looms ahead of him before too long, and Killian pauses there, staring into the depths of it. There’s a hint of fire deeper in, light playing against the wall at the curve of the tunnel, which is a positive hint. Or a negative one, depending on what he’s about to walk in on. Someone’s definitely in there.

Killian takes a deep breath to steady his nerves, and walks inside.

Despite the trembling of the whole island, the cave doesn’t seem to be suffering. No rain of dust, no cracks in the walls; probably safe enough to be in. He trails his fingers along the wall as he heads towards the bend the light is coming from around, all of it awfully familiar. He’s not usually actually walking in here, but he knows the insides of this cave all too well.

He turns the bend, jaw already clenched in preparation for the sight of the room; bed and table and walls he’s all been pinned against. But in the middle of the bed, partially on his stomach, is Pan. His face is buried against the sheets, his hands curled tight in them, and his back rises and falls with rapid breaths. He looks altogether more human than Killian can ever remember seeing him before.

Instinct says to get away, but Killian pushes himself forward against that urge. He gets two steps into the space before Pan suddenly twists and lifts his head, as if only just now noticing his presence. He doesn’t fully rise, only pushes up on one hand and twists his torso to stare back.

Pan’s eyes are wild, dark, and there’s a strained tension around the edges of his expression. Almost like pain. What Killian notices most though, as he draws closer, is the sweat slicking Pan’s skin. His hair’s damp with it, the back of his shirt just starting to show a patch of wetness between his shoulder blades. It looks like nothing so much as someone caught in the throes of an intense fever. As if Pan could catch a sickness.

It doesn’t look like a trap. And if it is, why bother with this show? Why would Pan still be waiting?

“Killian,” Pan says, and his voice is as wild as his expression. His mouth curls into something between a grin and a snarl. “Did you do this? Did you—?”

Whatever ‘this’ is, Pan doesn’t seem to have the breath to finish saying it. His head drops, forehead pressing to the sheets as his fingers twist the cloth between them, and there’s a thick shudder that slides down his back. The cave shakes in tandem, and this time dust does fall, patterning down onto the top of the table. Killian glances at the ceiling, then back to Pan and the bed, following the lines of tension in back, shoulders, and long legs. His growing theory is all but confirmed when Pan gives him a quiet, tightly restrained sound of pain that he can barely hear, muffled into the sheets like it is.

Whatever this is, Pan’s suffering, and Killian’s lost too many morals to not feel sharp, vengeful satisfaction at that realization.

“You’re not looking too good, Pan,” he says, wariness starting to ease away and be replaced by something dark. “Get pricked by that nasty plant of yours?”

Pan laughs, sharp and more vicious than normal. Like a cornered animal. “Dreamshade? Killian, you should know better. Nothing on this island hurts me unless I _let_ it.”

Killian steps up to the edge of the bed, just out of range of a grab from one of those long arms; he knows the distances by now. Slowly, he sinks into a crouch, bringing them to a near level height. Pan holds his gaze with a poisonous intensity, but Killian notices the faint tremble in the hand holding his shoulder off the bed. He’s learned to spot weakness, living here. Learned to read between the lines of threats as much as hear them outright.

“Let it?” he echoes, flicking his gaze down to that trembling hand and back up again. His mouth curves into a grin of his own; for once not faked or forced out of him. “Feel like being masochistic then? You don’t look much like you’re _letting_ whatever this is happen to you, Demon.”

There’s something in the depths of Pan’s eyes that’s unfamiliar, even as he smiles with all his normal wicked deadliness and challenges, “Come a little closer and _find out_.”

It takes a moment of staring, but Killian figures out what that little glint is. _Fear._

Maybe it’s crazy to do anything, but Killian’s done crazy things more than a few times in his life.

He lunges forward, Pan shoves back, and for once Killian finds himself the faster. His hand closes in Pan’s shirt and his momentum lets him slam the demon onto his back, and nothing stops him. Pan bares teeth up at him, grabbing for his wrists. Killian braces himself, automatically, for bruised wrists and maybe a broken one if he’s unlucky, but there’s no strength in the fingers wrapping around his skin. Not even enough to stop him when he pushes his hooked arm down against the hold.

Pan’s arm shakes where it’s trying to stop the descent, but Killian pushes right through the attempt to bring the metal down against Pan’s throat. It drags, slowly, through the skin there; draws enough blood to color the sharpened point.

“Kill me and you’ll never get off this island,” Pan says in a sudden rush, voice edged with actual pain. Something he hasn’t heard since Pan very first pretended to be as mortal as anything else on the island.

Killian tilts his head, watching how the rapid, small breaths Pan is taking are moving his chest. “That sounds a lot like you think I can. You must be weak if you’re worried, Pan.”

The demon laughs, but it’s breathless and sharp. “You want to know what’s happening, Captain? Something is trying to get into Neverland, and I’m keeping it _out_.”

“You’ve never minded guests before.”

“It’s not a guest,” Pan snaps, then all at once shudders and arches, expression twisting to a strained snarl.

Killian watches, and the sight sets more than a bit of dark enjoyment curling in his gut.

Pan goes still, breathing hard, a few moments later. Then pries both eyes open to look up at him. His voice is weak, but angry. “It’s not opening a door, it’s trying to break down the wall. If it gets in, Neverland will be destroyed, Killian. You should be _thanking_ me.”

That gives him pause for a moment. True, the place is hell, but no way out means no escape if this thing Pan’s denying breaks through, and Killian prefers surviving to meaningless suicide via unwinnable battles. _If_ Pan’s telling the truth.

“Is there some reason I should believe you?” he asks, with his own bark of a laugh. “You’re not exactly trustworthy, demon.”

The fingers curled around his wrists tighten slightly, as Pan gives a wild grin. “Why lie to you when the truth serves me just as well? You want me dead, Killian? Do you want it enough to sacrifice yourself? Your crew? Vengeance for your dead girl?” Killian’s jaw clenches, and Pan spits, “You hate me, my dear _captain_ , but not enough to lose everything else, isn’t that right?”

Damn the demon, but he’s _right_. Pan doesn’t usually lie, and if he is telling the truth then this revenge — slitting Pan’s throat and bringing him to his bloody _knees_ — would come at the cost of everything else he cares about, his own life included. He _wants_ this, he wants Pan to suffer, to hold some victory over him, but… not for that price. He can’t make that trade. The Dark One still needs to pay, he still needs to avenge Milah, and he can’t do that if he dies.

That dark thing in his gut climbs its way up through his chest.

“I don’t need to kill you to enjoy this,” comes out of his mouth, even before he fully realizes it’s an option.

No, he can’t kill Pan (even if everyone dying is a lie, Pan’s right; he’d be trapped on the island), but Pan’s weak and at his mercy. He’s not healing, the still-open furrow at his throat proves that, and he’s distracted. That’s a tempting target, even if Killian can’t allow himself the satisfaction of a lethal shot. When’s the next time he’s going to get Pan at his mercy? Pan will come after him for it, sure, but that’s no different than usual.

If things aren’t going to change, he might as well take what small victories he can get. Like, maybe just _once_ , having control in any of this. _Taking_ instead of being taken and making Pan feel just a tiny fraction of the humiliation and helplessness forced on him.

Pan’s eyes narrow. “You’d overpower someone just to feel powerful, Captain? Is that the kind of man you are?”

Once upon a time, never, but, “Looks like I’ve picked up some of your bad habits.”

First off, he’s not going to be able to do anything if he has to keep Pan held down the whole time, not with only having one hand. Killian needs that hand for other things, so Pan needs to be restrained. He hasn’t got anything on him, but he could use the sheets, or…

The belt at Pan’s waist catches Killian’s eye.

Killian pulls his hook away from Pan’s throat and swings a leg over his waist at the same time, dragging Pan’s hand along with his wrist till his knee can pin it to the bed. Pan reacts slow, shoulder bucking upward as he tries to twist out from under it, but Killian just bears his knee down and pins the arm in place.

His other hand lets go of Pan’s shirt, twists in a sharp circle that frees it from Pan’s fingers and lets Killian grab him instead. There’s a sharp inhale, as he pulls Pan’s arm down so he can lift the other knee, settle that over him too. Then he’s pinned, twisting but Killian’s bigger, heavier. Usually it doesn’t matter but he’s been in enough fistfights to know that by normal rules this is an easy win, and right now? Pan’s playing by normal rules.

“Killian,” Pan threatens as he reaches for the belt, voice sharp with warning but nearly a gasp.

It comes loose easily, and one hard tug gets the rest of it out from under Pan’s weight. Sturdy leather; it’s not inescapable, but it’ll do. Shame he doesn’t have some of that rope that Pan just conjures out of thin air, but he’s not about to let the bastard up while he searches the room to see if any is still here. Now the only question is where to secure him. Up or down? The bed or somewhere else?

The bed, and simplest is just securing them behind his back. Usually Pan manufactures the loops and bars he’s secured to in some way, and this bed doesn’t have much in the way of base points to do that. Posts, but they’re smooth. Behind the back it is.

“Don’t like it when the tables are flipped?” Killian taunts, as he loops the belt over his shoulder and then grabs Pan’s arm to get the best position to roll him over.

Pan fights the direction of his pull, but can’t stop him, can’t even really resist except to laugh up at him. “Flipped? Hah, you’re deluding yourself. I’m going to pay every bit of this back, Captain, and you’re going to regret it by the time I’m done with you.”

“Maybe,” Killian agrees, lifting his other knee just long enough to shove Pan onto his stomach. “But right now I really couldn’t care any damned less.” He grabs one of Pan’s arms, loops the belt partially with his teeth and then drags it over to the other arm. “Maybe that’s just what happens when you torture someone for however long you’ve had me trapped on this bloody island.”

The belt pulls tight, and Killian loops the end through a couple times and into a partial knot. Enough to keep it in place as Pan's shoulders twist, tugging against the makeshift binding and testing it. Killian eyes the movement, and reaches for the knife at his waist.

"I'd stay still," he warns, before he takes the blade to the layers of Pan's shirt.

Pan hisses back at him but doesn't outright struggle. Killian's honestly not sure if the shudder is because of him, or because of whatever energy Pan's expending to keep the invader at bay, but there's a part of him that wants to believe it's fear. Pan, _afraid_ of him. That sounds satisfying.

The pieces of the shirt come away, leaving Pan's back bare to him, still damp with sweat when Killian puts his palm to it and presses down between his shoulder blades. He presses till Pan jerks against it, till his head tosses and he gasps for air. Even then he only slides his hand up to grip the back of Pan's neck and dig his fingers in. There's still blood on one side, slippery to the touch but the cut seems to have stopped bleeding for now.

"Feel powerful, Killian?" Pan spits at him, breathless from the compression of his lungs or the fight or some mix of both. "You really think this means anything?"

He lets go, trails his fingers down over Pan's shoulder, along the curve of his bound arm. "It means enough that you don't want it to happen. Now I'd be quiet, demon, given that for once I can actually stop you talking."

Pan's voice is sharp with anger, and a viciousness nastier than anything else on the island. Even the beasts and the mermaids. "You're wrong if you think what I've done to you is everything I can do. I'm going to strip you down to the bone, Killian. Cut right to the heart of you and make you beg for a taste of my mercy."

There's a piece of Killian that shivers, hearing the threat and knowing Pan means it. And the rest? The rest just gets angry.

He reaches for the pieces of the shirt, grabbing what remains of the sleeve of one side and putting it between his teeth before he jerks Pan partially onto his side. Poisonous green eyes and a sneer stare up at him, and Killian takes the cloth from between his teeth and shoves it down against Pan's mouth. There's resistance at first, and tightly closed teeth, but a hard cuff to the side of Pan's jaw stuns him and loosens it. Pan gags slightly as the cloth fills his mouth, and Killian clasps a hand over it and reaches for the other pieces with his hook. A practiced twist gets him the other sleeve, long and thin enough that he can wind it around Pan's head and between his teeth to pin the rest of the cloth inside.

This knot he ties tight with his hand and teeth both, not particularly caring that it catches some strands of Pan's hair in the loops.

He shoves Pan back down then, dragging fingers along the curve of his jaw and grinning down at the narrowed eyes watching him. "That's better, love. I think you're best when you're not speaking."

It's definitely easier without Pan alternatively taunting and threatening him. Some carefully applied pins from his knees let him strip Pan's boots and leggings off as well, and it's a nice reminder of Pan's vulnerability that he doesn't run or fight when Killian stands to shed some of his own clothing. Just the coat and vest, and enough of the lacing on his pants to get the front loose. He likes the feeling of still being mostly clothed while Pan lies there in nothing but the belt around his wrists. He likes the view too; long limbs and smooth skin, and enough sweat to make that skin shine in the flickering candlelight.

Looking at that skin, imagining how it will feel, drives Killian to cross the room and collect Pan's little jar of oil. He doesn't care about Pan enjoying it (except maybe about Pan suffering some of the same humiliation he does), but some preparation is a benefit to him. Besides, he's never… He's not a sadist, whatever else Pan's games have turned him into. He likes seeing Pan vulnerable, seeing him helpless, but the idea of hurting him like this makes something in Killian withdraw.

Pan fights him when he comes back to the bed, but Killian pushes between his legs with ease, shoving them wide and pinning one down with a knee. It makes it simple enough to get the lid off of the jar and dip his fingers in the oil before setting it aside. Maybe it spills onto the bed, and Killian really doesn't care. Pan's wrists twist against the belt as Killian slips his fingers down, and his back curves into an arch when Killian slides the first one in.

The whole room trembles as Pan does. Killian finds something intensely satisfying about that reaction, and he doesn't hesitate in pushing his finger deep enough that the ring on it catches against the outside and halts his progress. Pan's tight, but he presses on regardless. One finger quickly becomes two, and his prep is shallow and perfunctory. He could linger in this, but every pushing, scissoring slide of his fingers only makes him imagine his cock there instead and he doesn't want to waste any time.

With as weak as Pan is there isn't really any fighting, but Pan twists and squirms, making muffled sounds that all carry a distinct tone of outrage.

When Killian tries three fingers and they aren't met with any intense resistance, he moves on. His fingers come out and he reaches for the jar once more, gathering enough of it on his hand that he can reach in and slick his cock with a couple easy pulls. He can't quite resist groaning between his teeth as he does; he hadn't realized quite how hard he is, and the touch of his own hand is enough to startle him into making the sound. It feels _good_ , and anticipation curls in his gut because he knows it's about to feel better.

He's got enough decency to give a, "Might want to relax," before he wraps his hand around Pan's hip to hold him in place. It's a little awkward to do this without a second hand to guide him in, and he hasn't exactly had any practice at it, but like most things to do with his missing hand he just improvises.

A higher angle, cock coming to rest between Pan's cheeks as the demon snarls back at him, and he drags his hip back till the tip is just where he wants it. Then he pushes in and down, and gets the extreme pleasure of watching Pan's body stretch open to take him, bit by bit.

Pan's back is arching, muscle fluttering around the length of Killian's cock as he pushes forward till he's completely seated. Tightness and heat and enough slickness from the oil to make it easy enough to roll his hips and slide right through that clenching resistance. His fingers tighten on Pan's hip even as he slides his knee off of Pan's leg to situate himself a little better. Pan makes a muffled sound at every thrust, shivering, and it might be Killian's imagination but those noises don't sound like pain. They sound a lot like he could reach down and find Pan hard and definitely getting off on this. If he had another hand, or he cared about Pan getting off, Killian just might do it.

"Not bad," Killian grunts, rolling his head back for a moment and shutting his eyes. "Guess you don't let your Lost Boys fuck you, do you, Pan? Am I your first then? The only one to get inside you?"

Pan can't answer with anything comprehensible, but Killian's pretty sure he's right. He likes that thought of _taking_ something that Pan for once can't just get back or replace. A little moment of vengeance for everything that Pan's taken from him over the years.

He looks back down at Pan, eyeing the length of his back as his thrusts rock it, and then the slope of his neck and lowered head. The idea's barely in his head before he acts on it, reaching forward with his hooked hand and bending forward so he can shove the point down between the cloth serving as a gag and the back of Pan's skull. There's just enough room for him to force it down, hooking the cloth around the metal and giving himself a nice handle.

Killian leans back, and the pull of his arm forces Pan into an arch, lifting his shoulders and upper chest off the bed. Killian doesn't bother to restrain the thick groan that the sight inspires, as Pan begins to more noticeably shake from the strain of maintaining that arch.

Words come and go on his tongue without him saying any of them, little pointless compliments and dirty comments that he'd probably say with any other partner. Old habit from before this hell, when he didn't hate the person under him and a few words could go a long way towards making them feel good. When he actually wanted to make them feel good.

Now, the only things he lets through his lips are sounds of pleasure. Partially because it feels good to vocalize it, and partially just so Pan knows how much he’s enjoying this. He doesn’t hold back his thrusts either; why should he? He doesn’t care, and even if he did, Pan’s strong enough to take it. Or will be.

It all goes right to his gut, swirling around in a tightening circle until he's digging his fingers in hard enough to bruise, feeling that coiling spring at the base of his spine. He's not going to last much longer, but he doesn't really care about that. God knows how many years trapped on this island, never being on this side of things? Not the most favorable conditions for his staying power.

His eyes squeeze shut, teeth biting into his lower lip as a bead of sweat rolls down the side of his face. That tiny flash of pain, against everything else, is the thing that finally tips him over the edge. A few more ragged thrusts and he shouts towards the rock of the ceiling, hunching down over Pan's back as his hips grind forward. The pleasure spikes up his back, right up his spine to the base of his skull, where it blanks out his mind with white heat.

The long pulses keep Killian there for a few moments, until finally the haze recedes and he relaxes. His shoulders lower, head falling back as he takes a couple deeper breaths and stabilizes.

Pan falls back to the bed, back rising in sharp breaths, when Killian pulls his hook free of the makeshift hold. A shove of his hand, in the next moment, pushes Pan flat and makes them part. Killian sits back against his heels, letting his gaze rake up across Pan's thighs, his back…

Nothing comes to mind that doesn't feel like a compliment, so Killian just huffs out a laugh and drops his gaze to tuck himself away. He's just gotten the button done when the cave — and Pan — shake even harder than before. Dust rains down, making a couple of the candles sputter as it falls into their flames, but nothing quite goes out. Still, it's more than enough of a sign that he's getting close to overstaying his welcome. If Pan loses it, and this cave crumbles, Killian doesn't want to still be in it.

He gets off the bed and goes to tug his vest and coat back on.

Pan is twisting on the bed, thighs pulling together even as he fights the wrap of the belt. It's loosening a bit, but Killian's sure it'll hold long enough for him to be gone. He watches as he does up the buttons on his vest, one by one.

He feels good. Satisfied, more than physically. The sight of Pan lying there, even if most of it isn't directly due to him, is a memory he's going to keep with him for a long time.

The last button hooks, and Killian shoves his hand into a pocket. "Thanks for the ride, Pan. See you whenever you sort all of this out, I suppose."

Pan makes a sound through the gag that's clear anger, head twisting to glare up at him. There's dangerous promise in his eyes, but Killian's not too scared by it this time. (Not while he's flying high on this victory.)

He flashes a grin, then turns for the exit and tosses over his shoulder, "Relax, I'm sure you'll get out eventually. Or maybe one of your little Lost Boys will find you. You've taught them to keep secrets, haven't you?"

He's not used to how _power_ feels, but this moment? This is the best he's felt for decades.


End file.
